Polygamy Ain't Lookin' So Bad
A bittersweet goodbye to my beloved co-wife.
Ahhhh, polygamists: scary old white men marrying dozens and dozens of 13-year-old sisters or… Bin Laden.
I’m starting to think we are brainwashed to believe polygamy is a creepy thing. (Not sure who is brainwashing us. Not men, I wouldn’t think, but who?) It has been practiced for millions of years and not just by sickos. I have the read the Bible, thank you very much, and quite a few of those revered guys had multiple wives.
Still, my whole life it gave me the willies to even contemplate polygamy. Self-righteously, I’d declare, “I’d never share my man!” like sex is the only aspect to a polygamous relationship.
Then I had kids. When my first child was born, my mother stayed with us for 10 days, cooking and cleaning, bringing me water whenever I nursed. It was wonderful … and then she was gone. I was alone all day with the baby. I cried and cried. It seemed like I could hardly get away from nursing and changing diapers to make myself a cocktail … I mean, a sandwich.
Seven days after my mother left, my friend Ginny came to live with us for six weeks. She was four months pregnant with her first child and her husband had just been deployed to Afghanistan. He would be gone for 15 months.
It was an emotional time for both of us, and we needed each other’s support. But it was also amazing to have a woman in the house. Being female, she was a mind reader. She would just look at me and know to bring me my Tab and my Nembutal. I never felt like I was nagging for help.
I think my husband was going a little crazy having different women living with us. But, I wondered, if they were cooking for him AND he could have sex with them, would he have been as annoyed? (Paging Dr. Freud.)
Last May, when Ginny’s husband left for another year-long tour in Afghanistan, she moved with her 2 ½-year-old son back to Dunedin. We spent every day together. Soon after, my husband’s job required that he work out of town each week. That was when Ginny and I started the coolest thing I have ever done (an exaggeration, I hope). We planned a menu together and switched off eating dinner at each other’s house every night.
One of us would go to the other’s house at 4 p.m., and the ladies would cook together while the kids played. We drank wine, chatted and gossiped. Working together, we made the most amazing meals: goat cheese and spinach crepes with balsamic glaze, penne with walnuts and roasted broccoli and Greek salad hummus wraps with homemade pitas. We grilled “Dinosaur meat” for the kids. I started to bake homemade bread. Each night after dinner was over, Ginny and I would clean up the kitchen, give the kids a bath and then go home. It was bliss.
It was awesome only having to come up with, and shop for, two or three meals a week. But also because there was someone there to talk to while I cooked. It changed from being a chore to being fun. For so long, the end of the day had been my most dreaded time. What to do with the kids? What to make for dinner? I was feeding the kids canned dog food (organic) because I was too exhausted to make a good meal AND clean up after it. It was a depressing routine.
Being home with kids all day can get lonely. And I know women have come up with moms groups and playground play-dates as ways to get out and socialize with other mothers. I kept wondering why I find these groups so unsatisfying, when I finally realized: They’re taking me away from all the stuff I have to do. I have to do laundry and cook and clean and sitting here at the playground is driving me CRAZY. I hate the playground.
Yes, my kid broke his leg on one of the curved ladders, but I think maybe I hated it before that. What are we doing here? Am I supposed to play with my kids or just sprint around having a heart attack as they perilously peer over the six-foot edge, laughing, “Look at me! Look at me!”? Seven adult conversations (started but never finished) later … “Come on kids, it’s time to go home.”
Shouldn’t my kids be playing by the riverbank with all the other kids in the village while the ladies do the laundry?
Maybe I’m sexist, maybe I’m a realist, but I have been seriously rethinking my stance on polygamy. I have been thinking maybe there is some in-born pack mentality that causes women to collaborate, working and gossiping while all their kids play together, older kids watching the younger kids. (It is a laundromat/playground.) I’m telling you this is how women work. (Ever found yourself discretely cleaning out your friend’s refrigerator?)
For all the help men now give us, there is still a big difference between a man and a woman. And as much as we may try to force (with our village-less society) men into the caretaker roles, no amount of waxing, pink shirts, and no-polish manicures will turn a man into a nurturer. (Now don’t get all huffy. I’m generalizing, but I think most men would agree that the thought of caring for an infant freaks them out.)
Women help when they see another woman working. Men take that as their cue to go lay on the couch. Woman don’t come home and leave their muddy shoes on a freshly mopped floor. Women automatically – that means they don’t have to be asked – help when one kid desperately needs the green cut off his strawberries while the other kid has his head stuck under the bed. When kids are fussy, women take turns letting each other eat.
Women know when to give another woman some time to take a shower, AND a woman knows how to break it gently to her friend that she smells, looks like a meth addict and needs to wash her hair.
I really think that we might find it helpful having a couple other wives in the house. (I would obviously have to choose the wife.) Especially since many of us live far away from other family members, and/or we had kids so late that our 75-year-old parents aren’t thrilled about being left for two hours with a hyperactive 18-month-old.
Plus many of us wanted big families, but with only 15 minutes left on our biological clocks and three more kids to spit out (not to mention the guaranteed divorce and asylum stay that another infant would cause), it would be nice if another wife could get busy pushing out a couple kids. Then we could have that nice big family we all dreamed about (without the prolapsed uterus to show for it).
So possibly there are some “hypothetical” downsides to polygamy.
I’m sure you won’t admit it now, because it is probably the middle of the day, and you feel all perky, but you can’t deny, late at night, when you are half asleep on the couch (or even worse, early in the morning, mouth full of hot garbage) you wish you could tag out of it, just this once, and let one of the other wives do it. So maybe you exchange exhaustion for some jealousy. I think it is a fair trade.
Sadly, I don’t see polygamy being legalized anytime soon. So, yes, I would love to have a play date with you and the kids. Why don’t you come to my house? And don’t forget your Dyson.
Author’s note: In the happiest of bittersweet goodbyes, my co-wife is safely reunited with her husband, and soon they are off to live in a new city. Even though I will sorely miss my buddies, I am so happy for them to be together again.